Fire arrows rained upon the siege tower, sending burning splinters cascading down to scatter panicked soldiers below. From the castle's murder holes came a lethal variety of missiles—not just arrows but poison darts, blown through bamboo tubes by warriors from Kalkas, an eastern city of Wyrmδenborn whose foreign fighters showed more courage than the local defenders. Godman soldiers heaved rams and freshly constructed siege towers toward Hilltop Fort, enduring withering arrow fire and crushing stones; the carnage was brutal. All their attention focused on the seemingly vulnerable castle where, in truth, Lord Shawn Penlico commanded fewer than three hundred defenders—two-thirds of them being the hastily conscripted bravest members of the Kadenford self-defense force, equipped with nothing more substantial than sleeveless leather jerkins that couldn't even protect both arms. He required little of them—merely to draw bowstrings and release, counting any hit on an enemy within fifty paces as success. The Godmans, provoked by the taunting castle archers, pressed their advantage, securing complete control of the western approach—the main gate. This was precisely the outcome Lord Penlico had engineered.

  Within less than a quarter-hour, the Godman West Wall detachment was hammering at Hilltop Fort's gates, the battering ram's rhythmic blows resounding against rust-flecked iron. Many self-defense force members had abandoned their bows; terror etched across their faces, legs trembling uncontrollably. "Have courage," the lord reassured one defender whose beard flowed unbroken from forehead to chin. "What is destined to arrive will come."

  And arrive it did, with perfect timing.

  Outside the western wall came a sudden eruption of combat—shouts, blade strikes, and the metallic symphony of weapons colliding. These reinforcements, hidden for so long throughout the countryside, were Penlico family soldiers who had patiently awaited their lord's signal. From the moment the West Wall defenses had fallen, Shawn Penlico had strategically withdrawn most of his troops from the castle, dispersing them throughout Kadenford. Recognizing the overwhelming numerical advantage of the Godman forces, he refused to divide his limited resources in conventional battle. Instead, he meticulously constructed a trap to equalize their disparate strengths, or at minimum force a stalemate. "Bloody hell, not again," Bigmouth Simon yanked his mare's reins, surveying the scene behind them. Penlico soldiers emerged from woodlands and dwellings, long spears leveled as they steadily closed the distance. "Tyler, your prediction was perfect," Carl said with weary resignation. "We've transformed from predators to prey—caught in another cursed encirclement."

  Some Godman soldiers, particularly those trailing in the rear guard, froze in indecision. "Break through their lines!" Devalosfang Dear commanded his Seventh Mixed Detachment. "Forget the damned castle!" He extended his sword toward the advancing Cynthian forces to the west. "Eliminate those outside first! Cavalry, advance to the front! Move! Move now!"

  With the enemy's attention successfully diverted, the archers atop Hilltop Fort renewed their assault, launching volley after blistering volley of flaming arrows. At the wall's base, the assault continued unabated—scaling ladders pressed forward, siege towers packed with archers inched closer, skeletal crews of two or three men operated battering rams, and the most audacious climbers attempted to scale the walls using steel cables. The Kadenford defenders retaliated by hurling down jagged rocks, cascading boiling water and searing oil, while crude catapults launched flaming projectiles, transforming the area beneath the walls into a hellish inferno. "A pity about the grass," remarked a sinewy Kalkasian, descending from the wall's stairway. Lord Shawn Penlico's brow furrowed. "I wonder how many seasons must pass before it grows again."

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  "And yet I do not mourn the grass, any more than I mourn the people of Kadenford butchered by the Godmans. It is all a necessary sacrifice."

  The dark-skinned, wiry Kalkasian's mouth curved into a grin as he tucked his bamboo blowpipe into his waistband. "'Necessary sacrifice'—what a magnificent phrase." He pantomimed grasping something invisible, studying his empty hand with exaggerated intensity. "Tell me, my lord, does this 'necessary sacrifice' of yours have any limits?"

  "...None." After momentary hesitation, the lord answered with finality. "Even your own family?"

  "...If circumstances demanded it, yes."

  "Such a cold-blooded man." The Kalkasian theatrically dropped his imaginary burden to the ground. "Mind your tongue, Kalkasian. And your gestures," the lord's voice and gaze hardened like winter frost. "You possess neither the standing to discuss sacrifice with me, nor the privilege to wave those twig-like fingers of yours so carelessly in my presence."

  "Ah, so now one requires 'credentials' to discuss sacrifice." He deliberately twisted the lord's words, savoring the moment with audible chuckles. "But here's something worth considering, my lord." His narrowed eyes sent an involuntary chill down Penlico's spine. "Fully half your remaining defenders are Kalkasians. Do you comprehend the implications? First," he raised one finger, preemptively silencing any interruption, "at the merest whistle from me, they would immediately stow their poison tubes," he patted the weapon at his side, "and vanish like spirits. Don't question our ability to escape from your crumbling, surrounded fortress—I assure you, we possess the means. Second," his smile transformed into something predatory, "we Kalkasians, as foreigners, are risking everything to defend this place. Can you not see what that signifies? It means your own people of Kadenford lack even the basic courage to defend their city or sacrifice for their nation. They cower in wine cellars or flee through the countryside. That, my lord, is precisely why I am eminently qualified to speak of sacrifice."

  Shawn Penlico had always prided himself on his emotional restraint, but today he'd encountered a worthy adversary. Blood surged to his face, flushing his normally pallid complexion crimson. "Return to your post immediately, Kalkasian," he commanded, his voice maintaining its edge despite his fury. "Or I will have you and your one hundred and fifty countrymen hanging from the gate, decorating it like ornaments for the crows."

  The lean warrior merely laughed louder, drawing curious glances from nearby archers. "Would that also constitute a 'necessary sacrifice'?" He casually lifted his blowpipe, prompting Penlico to draw his sword while a nearby knight followed suit—though carefully positioning himself behind his lord. "When you've sacrificed everything around you, my lord, you'll discover that only you yourself remain. Which part of yourself will you sacrifice first?"

  "I need not dignify that with a response, Kalkasian. But I can promise you this—before sacrificing myself, I shall first sacrifice you and your uncouth kinsmen."

  The Kalkasian shook his head, maintaining his unsettling smile. "When the time comes, and you have nothing left to sacrifice but yourself, sacrifice your humanity first." With that parting wisdom, he ascended the stairs to return to his post.

  Penlico exhaled deeply, sheathing his sword with controlled precision. "The Kalkasians cannot be trusted, my lord," whispered the knight with the horned helmet who had remained behind him. "They will never die for you, for Kadenford, or for Cynthia. They remain foreigners at heart."

  "Hmph, your observation isn't incorrect," the lord acknowledged, draping an arm across the knight's shoulders. "But he wasn't wrong either, knight," he said, deliberately omitting the man's name. "You wouldn't die for me either, you coward. Don't think I didn't see you hiding behind me, letting me be the one to taste the Kalkasian's dart."